Right here.

Via, again, Whedonesque.

Yes, I watched about 20 minutes of the debate before I couldn’t take it any more. For a drinking game that doesn’t put you in the hospital, you should drink every time Obama says (paraphrased except for the inflection): “Here’s a point where I think it is important to look at the record.” As in, there are points (and they are many!) where he would prefer we not look at the record. He is making a big mistake in not squelching this natural inflection. He should just say “Look at the record!” and leave it at that. (Yes, I tried combing the C-SPAN video to find a specific instance, but couldn’t take the mind-numbing horror long enough. He said it at least twice in the short portion I watched last night.)

Even Dancing with the Stars was reasonably lame this week, starting with the laming of Misty May-Treanor, who popped her Achilles tendon (ow ow ow ow!!) in rehearsal. She and Maks have withdrawn for the season and nobody else was eliminated last night, though my strategy of using all my votes on Rocco apparently didn’t have many co-actors, as he and Karina would have been eliminated last night if not for Maks and Misty’s absence. COME ON, PEOPLE. Cloris Leachman. Susan Lucci. I cannot believe people are voting for these women, although I will say that Lucci’s jive showed more energy than I thought she could muster, even if her footwork was off in several places. The Rockettes, however, almost made up for last week’s results-show horror. Keep kicking, ladies.

Heh.

Via Whedonesque.

Assuming it premieres before Rob Thomas’s reset of Cupid: Castle, starring my one, if not quite my only, Nathan Fillion:

Not having read anything but the basic plot synopsis–mystery novelist helps chick detective solve crime–I actually assumed it was going to be a bit more of a drama. Reclusive mystery novelist, scary-smart, pushed reluctantly into helping because it’s his duty … oh hells no. A comedy with serious tones more along the lines of Bones, by the looks of it, which is A-OK with me (Bones having, thank the television gods, picked up quite a bit since its dismal season premiere). And it looks to be a lot more fun than Drive, which, sadly, isn’t saying much. This could be Fillion’s winner. Still a shame that his wittier, less routine work on Firefly went so under-appreciated, but here’s hoping this one takes off. As with David Boreanaz on Bones, it’ll be a real pleasure to see the Whedon-alum “good bad boys” become “bad good boys.”

Via Whedonesque.

Photos, taken on my recent Indiana trip, of what’s commonly called the Empire Quarry, near Oolitic, Indiana, where Indiana boys dug out the Indiana limestone to build the Empire State Building. More of the same is now being used on the new Yankee Stadium. To get to the vantage point where these were taken, you cross through a hilltop graveyard. A lot of this same stone built most of my university and a lot of others in Indiana.

Colorful ID, NYC-style:

The ID from the other end of the pool:

Otherwise I might be upset.

…or anybody else with two Oscars. Because Emma Thompson says so. Yeah!

Wonder if it’s still cooler after three … Oscars, that is.

The middle class doesn’t make minimum wage. You’re tipping your hand rather obviously, which is that, of course, you want to use government mandates to magically transform the poor into the middle. Too bad you don’t have the economic sense to understand there would no longer be a middle if that happened. Then what class would you talk about? C’mon, you’re shooting yourself in the foot here.

Love,
Anwyn

…to be a Palin fan.

Not so much to be a Cubs fan.

Heart-ache. Or maybe voice-ache.

And condescend to you over the knowledge needed to know you must register to vote. Because what are you doing right now … ? Watching TV, our product? Watching a movie, again our product? Watching this video online, still our product? Wow. You’re doing that instead of registering to vote? You know you gotta register, right? Ya know that, right?

Cuz remember, if you spend your time watching what we do, you must be dumber than dirt.

What a bunch of wackoffs. Honestly, the only one I was sorry to see in there, though, was Amy Adams.

I don’t know who’s off yet; part one of my voting strategy seems to have come off, as Rocco is saved and I’m positive it was my eleven votes that did it. Positive!

Okay, now the important stuff. This is the first time I’ve ever had to a) look at moving footage of Jessica Simpson as opposed to still photos; b) listen to her sing.

She is atrocious. Yes, I realize I’m figuring out what many other people knew several years ago, but this is what comes of being a 33-year-old mom who keeps up rather languidly with pop culture. Okay, fine, I never really kept up with the pop culture that supposedly, to watch the media cover it, enthralls 80 percent of the American population. I watch/listen to what I like and know the basic peripherals about people like Britney. Or ‘N Sync. Or Jessica.

She is atrocious. She sings flat–out of tune, for you nonmusic types. And it seems she’s trying to compensate for that blatant shortcoming by affecting a style that is just as hideous. French-kissing the mike, cracking her voice like the worst possible combination of a country wailer and an alt-pop edgything, and wearing a one-armed bat-gown that, if it doesn’t get fugged, I ought to know the reason why. Try watching a flat singer who is jerking her head and torso in wretchedly unnatural movements while opening her mouth as wide as possible and all the while inwardly shrieking, “Where is your ARM?!” and you’ll have some idea of the crazy that goes on in my TV room after The Bean is asleep.

I wouldn’t have watched at all, only Cheryl and Maks were dancing rumba and Oh-My-God.

So now I’m letting the TiVo buffer accumulate so that I can fast-forward through any more garbage, like the Macy’s Stars of “Dance” performance. Dancing with the Stars amazes me sometimes with the risks it is willing to take for what one would suppose is a family-friendly show. The Macy’s thing tonight was an homage to S&M that would have been so lewd if it weren’t just so tacky. The amazing part is that nobody on the set seems to notice; they suck it in like it’s a football game until I think that I’m watching something different from what the studio audience is watching. Bread and Circuses. I love DwtS, but occasionally they seem to be trying to sanitize some very crappy stuff. Or just showcasing crappy artists. Like the Jonas Brothers. The only thing that made their flat, over-stylized stylings bearable was … it wasn’t, really. Just the dancing. This is what comes of loving a show that caters to that supposed 80 percent.

Time to find out who’s goin’ home … Hallelujah, Kim’s gone. Don’t worry, Mark, your dad won’t be the only Ballas on the floor for long. I hope. Ding-dong, Kim’s gone, we didn’t suffer through The Simpson in vain.

Not that persuasive … to anybody who doesn’t already think you walk on water. Sign that man up to take the lead on all future American crises immediately! Of course, as a “Look over there!” to the question of why he hasn’t been calling the individual members of his own party or why, if he has, they haven’t responded, it’s pretty classic.

I wish I had a category that, when clicked, would play the refrain of South Park’s Mormon shredder: “Dumb dumb dumb dumb duuuumb!”